Colour
by melliemellie
Summary: He knows it'd be easier just to keep it white and it's not that he doesn't like it, but it isn't a colour, more the absence of it, and that's what he really wants; colour. Set before A New Game


Ok, so basically the backstory to this is that when I first started writing A New Game I had the headcanon that the acid bath bleached J's hair as well as his skin white, but I was too scared to include so left it out. However, its proven to be a popular idea so I'm putting I back in, which is why I've now written this one-shot and have also done art which can be seen on my tumblr mellie-art. So this is a prequel to A New Game, from Joker's pov. Which I've never done before. So please be gentle lol.

* * *

It's his own fault, really. How did he ever think he could limit himself to just one? One out of the vast array of colours spread out before him, all vying for attention, crying _me me me_ until he almost has to cover his ears. As if that'd work. He should've waited, thought it through but he was too impatient and it's too late to lament the lack of foresight now.

He's been here for almost an hour...or maybe it's more, or maybe it's less, he can't really remember but he knows it's long enough for the woman to approach him twice now and ask if he's ok. And he isn't, not by a long shot, but that's not what she means and even if it was, he wouldn't be able to tell her. His words don't come out right, tone and pitch changing without his permission and that's on the occasions he _can_ get them out. Otherwise it's just pointless rambles and hysterical giggling that'd have security on him in seconds if anyone heard it.

And he can't have that, not now, not yet, no matter how entertaining it might be. He's got plans and isn't quite ready for a round of kiss chase with the boys in blue. But that doesn't stop his imagination running away with him and a giggle falls out before he can even stop it.

He claps a hand over his mouth and he doesn't need to look to know the glances he's getting are moving from curious to wary. He can't really blame them, stood as he is with hunched shoulders, twitching limbs and a hood covering the face he's only known for three weeks and still hasn't gotten used to. He needs to make a decision but, just like his words, his thoughts aren't working, either. It's hard to focus when they're busy running off in twenty different directions at once, chasing every fleeting notion that passes through while trying to process a world that his senses can't quite handle.

He smacks the side of his head, hoping the blow will shock his brain into momentary stillness - _come on come on that's a good lad_ \- but he's still stuck with the dilemma of having _so much_ _choice_. He knows it'd be easier just to keep the hair white and it's not that he doesn't like it, but it isn't a colour, more the absence of it, and that's what he really wants; _colour_. Bright, garish, hideous colour to inject some life into the drab landscape. It's all too monochrome and the second he's ready he's going to explode on the scene like a firework and give the city something it'll _never_ forget!

He scans the shelf one more time, determined to finally _choose_ and his fingers run across the packets, giving harder taps to the ones he _really_ likes. Blue green orange purple yellow black- His fingers recoil. Not black. Never black. That's not for him. That belongs to the _other one_ , the creature made of nighttime and shadows, who feeds on filth and depravity and deals out justice with glowing eyes and sharp claws. Whose pictures litter every inch of his walls and the reason he's even here at all.

And that's when a colour catches his eye and something clicks. Red, the colour of fire and blood and temptation and desire and everything that's wonderfully dangerous. Flowing through the veins of every living thing and looking so beautiful when it spills onto the floor. That's a recent discovery, one made completely by accident and he's looking forward to seeing it again.

And how lovely it'd look in this world of grey, a colour that lures people in as it tells them to stay away. It's enough to make him laugh again.

His eyes are shining as he reaches for the packet and that's when something changes. It's subtle, creeping up his spine and making the back of his head tingle and he looks out the window and there, there it is. There there _there!_ And everything else is unimportant and forgotten as he runs outside, desperate for a better look.

It lights up the sky, putting the stars and moon to shame and he wants - _needs_ \- to get closer and his eyes don't leave it as he crosses the street, ignoring car horns and shouts, moving through alleys and turning corners and climbing stairs and ladders until he finally reaches the top, his feet seeming to know the way even as he doesn't. Maybe he came this way before but it was during a lifetime that no longer belongs to him.

His eyes are reluctantly torn away when he has to double over and retch. Even this short jog was too much and he leaves a puddle of lurid yellow on the concrete, speckled with drops of blood. It's better than it was, the hacking cough almost gone now, but he still has a way to go before he's better. Or whatever will pass as better for him now.

He clutches his chest as looks back up. It's alright, it's still there and he moves closer to the edge. This isn't the highest building in the city, not by a long shot and one day he plans to scale the tower that looms over all the others, get as close as he can ever be to that glorious symbol decorating the night sky, but for tonight this'll do because he just wants to _see it_ and -

If he had to truly describe it, he knows he never could. Not properly. Even if words fell out of his mouth exactly as he intended them to, he wouldn't know which ones to use. It'd be like trying to explain what oxygen feels like. It just...it stirs something deep in him, like being woken from an endless sleep, like he's been lost in the dark his entire life and someone has suddenly switched on a light to guide him home.

He wonders if the other one has seen it. Are they out there now, moving across the city in search of their next victim? Will _he_ get to meet them? What would he do if he does? Would they even remember him, recognise their handiwork? Or would he be ignored, passed off as collateral damage? Or...has he been forgotten already?

He doesn't think about that. It doesn't matter, because pretty soon they're going to know nothing _but_ him. And as the cold air hits and makes his eyes sting and the tears roll down his face he can't bear the confinement anymore and strips off the hoodie, letting the wind slam into skin that's still raw and, for a moment he stops breathing because the sensation is too much. But then it passes and starts to soothe, and it eases the pain that's beginning to fade but he suspects may never go completely.

And he keeps watching that light, silence, clarity and calm descending as everything else disappears. This signal is as much for him as the creature, calling him out to play, a siren song that speaks straight to the heart. _Soon_ he thinks and doesn't realise the whisper has even left his mouth as it's snatched by the breeze. Soon the game will begin and the city will become their playground. The thought makes him smile.

 _Soon._


End file.
